


Free Shooter

by chuplayswithfire



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, M/M, Mention of Non-Consensual Sex, Non-Consensual Kissing, Possession
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3343829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuplayswithfire/pseuds/chuplayswithfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a dumb plan, but somebody's got to do it. Kairi and Isa can stuff it with their plans and their common sense. Braig's going to bring Dilan back, even if it means cornering him in the middle of a forest and trying to tranquilize his stubborn, possessed ass. What could possibly go wrong?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Free Shooter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magicgenetek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magicgenetek/gifts).



> Part of a Role Reversal AU that just won't stop growing. Essential facts: Lea and Dilan have swapped places with Braig and Isa, meaning Dilan is the vessel who lost an eye to Terra and Braig is the one out hunting for his friend after the role reversed equivalent of Dream Drop Distance. Lots of headdcanons in this.

Dilan closes his eye, tipping his head further back, letting the long, nearly solid silver tresses float on the water's surface. The temperature was perfectly steamy, courtesy of Lea's intervention, and the night was peaceful, almost idyllic.

Braig watches the scene through a sniper's scope some three hundred feet away, hidden in a tree. He feels like a creep, watching his (ex?) possessed boyfriend bathe like this, but it's all he can do. The silver that was so thoroughly taking over Dilan's hair was practically a red flag, reminding him of how foolish he'd been all these years, to think Xaldin had just been going gray years too early. It's enough to justify the creepiness of the moment. 

At least eyes closed means he doesn't have to see the gold in Dilan's eye, for all that he can still see the scar, the X over Dilan's sunken eyelash, a recusant's sigil that few even knew existed. For once, he wears no eye patch, and the scarred skin in it's cruel glory can be seen by all.

Dilan's as muscular as he used to be as he ought to be, broad body covered with scars and pointed ears (still weird) intact so that's at least not changed. It's obvious he's eating, drinking. Braig feels good about that, at least, to know Dilan kept himself fed and cared for.

It means the recovery might not be so taxing when he finally brings Dilan home.

Fingers slip to the trigger and Braig takes a breath as he settles in to line his shot just right...

He has a few doses of the tranquilizer. Just a few carefully measured tries to bring Dilan home. Aim. Breathe, make sure the wind wouldn't blow him off course - fire!

The first shot misses, because Dilan tilts his head, golden gaze flickering open and Braig watches him watch him. Never mind the three hundred feet of trees between them; the sniper has no doubt that Dilan is looking exactly at him, especially when he pouts - pouts! - and stretches languidly. The sniper curses as Dilan starts walking to the sloped entrance of the hot spring. 

Water stirs around, sliding down his flesh in little droplets, the light outlines toned muscle.

Braig swallows as he lines up the next shot - and then has to leap for a tree, manipulating space so he can manage the dive to a new spot as wind shoots for him, carrying the lancer forward.

"Braig....that wasn't very polite," Xehanort-as-Dilan calls out, shaking his head. "Can't a man enjoy something so simple as a bath without fear of assault?"

Braig levels the gun, not bothering with the sight anymore, not at this range.

"Not when he's being possessed by an asshole." He fires, and the wind that throws the dart off course is far from natural, earning another curse as the distance between the two men is closed.

He has to keep his guard up - even if it's Dilan's mostly naked before him, showing even more scars gained since the last time Xigbar had seen Xaldin, even if his (bright golden) eye was soft with vulnerability and a hint of fond familiarity, even if his long, long hair was loose for once, curls softened by the weight of water, silver and black tresses hanging down to cover  curves.

Dilan's mouth smiles. It is a very Dilan smile, faint, crooked. 

"If I was possessed every time I was cruel I'd never be myself," he points out, stepping closer. Braig keeps the gun close, finger on the trigger.

"Being an ass with a few sticks shoved up there ain't the same as what you're doing now and you know it. Come on Dil - your hair's white and your eye is gold. If that's not signs of possession I don't know what the fuck it is."

Dilan shrugs, lithe.

"I wish you'd just trust me," He says, but it's with a smirk, lips curled upwards in a half smile, teasing. He knows as well as Braig does that it's a joke - and it's that joke that makes him so much like Dilan that Braig can't stand it.

His Dilan would never say something like that. He'd make some caustic comment, lavender eyes hard and merciless, or he'd taunt and needle him until he wanted to shout or his blood sung with the need to fight and let it out. Something so - conciliatory would never be allowed to pass his lips, save as a mocking taunt.

Xehanort had no right. He had no right to use Dilan like this, to make it so obvious he knew everything and anything he wanted about Dilan.

It's a violation, cruel and twisted, an expression of the kind of violence he was putting Dilan through - but Braig couldn't, couldn't, deny a sick, wanting urge to hold him, to laugh at his joke.

He _missed_ Dilan dammit...

"Don't. Just don't." Dark brown eyes level with a single golden one, a stern wall. He wasn't afraid. He was going to bring Dilan home or die trying.

"If you'd rather I remain silent, you've come to the wrong place and the wrong man Braig. Why ever would I of all people want to hold my tongue? Neither of us has ever much liked silence."

Us. It's an admittance, a confession, and Braig swings the gun - not pulling the trigger, but aiming to strike, connect, trip him up so the tranquilizer had a better shot of connecting - but long legs bend and Dilan leaps high, aided by fierce winds and avoided him all together.

"So callous," he says quietly. "I'm almost impressed."

Braig doesn't flinch. He wants to. He wants to wipe that look off of Dilan's face, because that almost mocking hurt doesn't belong on those features, shouldn't soften stern lips and leave his brows furrowed so slightly - they ought to be thick and cruelly furrowed, showing his sharp anger or his equally sharp amusement - everything about Dilan was hard lines and points, softened by caring not by, by twists of lips and soft expressions.

It wasn't right. It's wrong, as wrong as it feels to be leveling these guns loaded with sleepga at Dilan's face.

"You would know," he says sharply. "You of all people, you'd know. Acting like Dilan - and you're doing it wrong."

"Just because he doesn't share his soft side with you doesn't mean I haven't seen it."

Simple statement. Bald. Delivered so dryly that it takes a moment to set in, like ice surrounding limbs, chilling him from the outside in.

And then rage blisters within him as he fires, missing only because he's broadcasting clear enough for a blind man to guess his aim.

"Tsk, tsk."

Braig fires again, and again - sleepga spells even in his anger, because he doesn't want to hurt Dilan for all he wants to pry the old coot kicking and screaming from his body. Dilan might be as good as naked, but he's certainly not defenseless, for he ducks and weaves and uses the wind to his advantage, until finally Braig teleports behind him, lines up a shot - and chokes abruptly as Dilan twists to grind up against him, dips his head to nibble at his neck.

It's an entirely unexpected form of attack, and he freezes up, half shock, part horror, part unwanted arousal. Because. Because Dilan's beautiful and wet and pressed against his front and even if he doesn't want anything to do with this he can't deny that basic anatomy finds this attractive.

"Get off of me!"

"Make me," Xehanort-as-Dilan taunts, and it's certainly Xehanort now, no mix of the two, no cruel combinations - Dilan would never never never do this, would never put hands on someone who didn't want him, would never curl and slink against him like this.

Braig snarls and shoves, but it's a futile effort that only serves to make him sweat and pant, sends a flush to his cheeks. Dilan's got half a foot on him, along with at least thirty pounds of muscle, and as long as Xehanort wants him held down he's not going to be going anywhere.

It's a terrifying thought, stirs up all sorts of memories and flashes, of tongues and hands and toys inside him and playing with him, of doing the same, of tormenting and being tormented, a sexual tableau he wants nothing more than to  _forget_.

But he can't, especially when Xehanort refuses to stop talking.

"Truly I have to wonder, who's desire it is that makes your body so irresistible. Is it my own? Is it his-"

"It's yours, you sick fuck-"

A sharp bite to his shoulder, not hard enough to tear flesh but painful; Xehanort's punishment for those who speak out of turn.

"Asking a child to give a vow of chastity - it leads to all sorts of terrible impulses, you know. Desires...wants," He drags his tongue across his neck, softening the sting of the bite.

"Curiosity can't help but be fostered...all that pent up lust. Do I want your body? Or does he want it? My desire to hear that voice break and cry out, or his desire to see you flushed with pleasure and warmth?"

"You're a twisted liar," Braig tries to snarl, squirming in disgust. He's - he's not ace. He doesn't hate the idea of sex either, but the thought, the experience - it's tainted with memories of incest mountain and he doesn't want to even go there, he doesn't want anything to do with this.

And especially not like this!

One leg jerks up, jamming his knee in Dilan's gut and making the other buckle, making him hiss in involuntary pain.

"You're full of shit. Dilan'd never want this," want to be possessed, to be forced, to force Braig.

He wouldn't and this perverted old coot could get right the fuck out. He glares, brows set in a furious snarl, gaze piercing.

Xehanort takes a moment to regain his breath.

"Mmm, perhaps you have point - we did imagine it to be quite a bit more romantic than this," Xehanort responds finally, the faintest rasp of pain in his voice - and the sound of it sends a thrill of dark satisfaction through Braig, to know he caused that, to know he hurt the fucker - and continues. "But you always have to make things difficult."

He leans in for a kiss, and Braig bites him, feels skin tear under his teeth and blood begin to drip, but this time pain doesn't stop Xehanort and the kiss is one of iron and heat, an unwanted metallic tang and a bitter, almond bite from some treat Xehanort-as-Dilan had enjoyed earlier in the day. It's easier to focus on that, on the unwanted things, than to think of the way Dilan is molded against him, warm and protective, naked flesh against his own clothed form, falsely vulnerable in the moonlight.

Because those things are pleasant. Almost, pleasant, and if he closed his eyes he could pretend but he can't and he won't because this isn't Dilan and this won't ever be Dilan if he can't stop him, stop him here and now...

The sharpshooter struggles, lips firmly pursed to keep Dilan's probing tongue out of his mouth, all the while hands start to trail down his sides, under his clothes and he snaps because no.

Braig sinks back, almost as if he were giving in and Xehanort parts Dilan's lips in a cruel, smug grin, just as the other surges up and headbutts him, a sharp crack of skull clashing skull splitting the air and lights in their eyes, dancing and sparkling  and they both stumble away from each other, Braig brings up his gun to fire and -

And something leaves, but it's not an arrow. Because in his hands isn't an arrowgun but a blunt weapon, arguably shaped like a key, six arrow shaped spokes acting as the teeth of the key and a long lance like body, the grip shaped like the trigger guard of his trademark weapons.

And it is the last thing he either of them expects to see in _his_ hands.

But he doesn't have time to think about it, to freak out or curse or any other reaction, because now, now there is no amused lust burning in Xehanort's golden eye, now there is only a sort of determined hunger and Braig leaps back to avoid a blow as a lance appears from nowhere and buries itself in the tree where his chest had been just seconds before.

The weapon -  _the Keyblade_  - practically sings in his hand as he raises it to parry and block the next lance, and the next, until a whirlwind of weaponry surrounds him and it is all he can do to keep them off.

It's a deadly dance, a fight for survival but he's laughing.

Laughing and striking them aside because he may not use a sword often and he knows next to nothing about the ways of a keyblade but he is an heir to Radiant Garden's throne - and more importantly, her libraries.

He knows full well what a keyblade can be used for, and he's willing to try and exorcise the devil before him, try to pry his heart from Dilan and dig away his soul.

Xehanort can see it too, he must, because the winds strike hard and fast, uncaring of the destruction, and Dilan's lips form curses. "The Seventh Light, it would be that wretched boy..."

"Now, now, old coot is that any way to treat a man on your first date?" He snarks, as if his lips weren't swollen with unwanted kisses, as if the words 'seventh light' haven't pricked his ears, as if he's got all the time in the world. It almost feels like he does. Never mind that Xehanort is several times more powerful than him. Never mind that he was an evil genius. Dilan was here and naked and vulnerable and all his weapons couldn't stop this keyblade from it's purpose, from striking the darkness that binds that heart -

From the west, light plumed, orange and yellow, violent as the air fills with a resounding wave of sound, and Braig would plummet if not for a neat reversal of gravity to keep himself balanced.

A fire, and a big one, and it's rapid appearance gives it but one source. "Lea. That little shit-"

"What will you do, Brai'?" The mocking voice asks, and for all his bare nakedness Xehanort looks like nothing but a king, the chess master ready to eliminate his pawns, power cloaking him in a way no clothing could ever compare too, a portal of darkness opening behind him. "Will you play the hero, and lose me again? Or will you abandon your foolhardy quest and come after me?"

Braig steps forward. Xehanort steps back, smile widening, hand reaching up in a quick, familiar gesture. _Come on, loser, we're going to be late!_

It reminds him of everything he's lost and everything he stands to gain with just a few more steps, close enough he could near reach out and grab it, he still has a dose, still has a chance, and ...

The roar of the fire grows louder as it feasts, as it spreads over trees and devours bushes in swift leaps of flame and soon it will be beyond all stopping. Soon a world will go up in flames and a people will die, and there will be more refugees, never mind that the heartless were gone.

There is triumph in Xehanort's eyes as his hand drops but his voice is full with an odd sadness.

"It figures you pick now to develop some common sense," Dilan says with the faintest reproach, as darkness swallows him and the portal vanishes and Braig is left...alone.

 


End file.
